


Let's Think of Each Other and Hesitate

by Loz



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Friends to Lovers, Kissing, M/M, Reunions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-22
Updated: 2017-07-22
Packaged: 2018-12-05 11:18:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11577006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Loz/pseuds/Loz
Summary: Perhaps it was a mistake to try to surprise Stiles like this. He doesn’t know what his reaction will be. He’s always happy to FaceTime, but there’s still distance between them, metaphorical as well as physical. Maybe Stiles has been enjoying this separation from his old life, and seeing Scott in person again will bring all the old horrors back.





	Let's Think of Each Other and Hesitate

**Author's Note:**

> Heavily inspired by seeing Posey and Dyl together again at SDCC, and also recent conversations with Dea (or, let's be honest: all conversations with Dea.) 
> 
> I've tried to write the pining from afar fic about nine times and I can't seem to be able to. I want them to be together always.
> 
> Title from the song "Give Me Just a Little More Time" by Chairman of the Board.

Washington DC doesn’t look how he expected. He figured he’d seen it in movies and on television enough it’d be familiar, but it’s not. It’s a cascade of different features, smells and sounds. There’s an artificial quality to the place, like it’s all a façade created for tourists to gawk at, and he’s instantly aware he doesn’t belong here – occupying that liminal space in between tourist and resident. Maybe it’s heightened because it’s a holiday. Doesn’t stop it from feeling true.

He navigates easily enough, manages to make to it to Stiles’ dorm. According to Stiles’ roommate Brad, Stiles should be arriving shortly after 4 pm. Perhaps it was a mistake to try to surprise Stiles like this. He doesn’t know what his reaction will be. He’s always happy to FaceTime, but there’s still distance between them, metaphorical as well as physical. Maybe Stiles has been enjoying this separation from his old life, and seeing Scott in person again will bring all the old horrors back.

Scott tucks his duffle away in a spare corner of the room and sits at the desk. Brad smiles at him from his spot on his bed, typing away on an ancient-looking laptop. Scott doesn’t know how to ask him to go, so he doesn’t, just makes small talk about the journey and how long he and Stiles have known each other. At 3:58, Brad makes a big show of looking at his wrist – where he’s not even wearing a watch – and getting up to go out. 

“Good luck, dude. I’ll stay at my girlfriend’s tonight so you two can have the room to yourselves.”

He waggles his eyebrows and Scott is about to ask what he thinks he and Stiles would be doing, but he realizes before the words leave his lips and he wonders why bother? He’s grateful for the time they’ll be given, so there’s no point correcting his erroneous views. 

Scott occupies himself with Trivia Crack and Words with Friends. Liam teased him for secretly being a middle aged man, but that’s only because he’s beaten him in twelve consecutive games. Scott doesn’t have anything else to do. He already texted everyone that he’d gotten here safely, and now he’s stuck with hurry up and wait. His stomach is churning, his chest feels Asthma tight, and he’s starting to run through all the worst-case scenarios for what might happen.

The door opens and Stiles enters the room like he does everywhere, exaggerated and taking up extra space. He’s swung his backpack onto his bed before he’s realized there’s anyone else in the room. When he does realize he drops down into a fighting stance, arms raised to guard his body and fists ready. 

Scott sees the instant Stiles registers that it’s him. Stiles bursts out a laugh, his eyes go from wary to warm, he stands full height and he surges forward to crush Scott into the world’s tightest hug.

“What are you doing here?” Stiles asks, laughter in his voice. His chemosignals are joy, lingering fear and the constant base notes that Stiles has always had: a mixture of nervousness, arousal, affection -- all rolled into one heady scent that varies in intensity and balance. 

“I missed you,” Scott answers, simply, as if there could be any other reason. “It’s the long weekend, I haven’t seen you in months. You can’t come home for Thanksgiving, so…the question of why not was stronger than the difficulties getting here.”

They’re still pressed up against each other. Scott has his hands around Stiles’ waist and Stiles has a hand cradling his jaw. Stiles is firm and warm against him, seems to fit against his skin like he was always meant to be there. Scott’s heart has settled into a rapid but steady beat and the awkwardness he was feeling has entirely dissipated. Having Stiles’ touch again has settled and grounded him and made him feel real again. Stiles has always had this way of looking at Scott that makes him feel like he’s truly _seeing_ him, and he gazes at him now, tender and happy and unashamed to show it.

“Missed you too, dude,” Stiles says softly, pulling away. Scott instantly regrets the loss. 

They chat about Scott’s trip, Stiles’ day. It’s gratifyingly banal. It’s the sort of conversation they’d almost never gotten to have, back at home. 

Seeing Stiles in person is different from on a screen. He can see the details that get obscured by pixels; every mole, the scruff of his unshaven jaw, the true color of his eyes. And he can see his body up close and the way it’s subtly changed: become even more wiry, still lean but muscular. Scott likes looking at the shift and play of his arms under the thin material of his shirt, how his back ripples as he turns to grab something from his desk drawer. 

“I got this for you. Was gonna send it next week.”

Stiles hands over a small box. Inside there’s a mini Yoda figurine. 

“I still haven’t seen the movies?” Scott says, blinking at Stiles. It hasn’t been like Stiles to give him a gift _he’d_ prefer since they were about nine years old.

“I know. But I told you I’d be your Yoda, and most of the time, you can’t have me, so…” Stiles shrugs. “Ta da!”

“Oh my god, and you try to say I’m the nerd,” Scott says, but he’s secretly so touched, he can hardly stand it. He holds his little Yoda to his chest, grins at him. When he looks up, Stiles is fidgeting with his cuff, his breathing fast and shallow. Scott’s concerned, but before he can ask what’s up, Stiles is feigning his cockiest expression and rocking back on his heels.

“This nerd’s gotten three party invitations for tonight. There’s a movie party, a pajama party and a dance party. Which one do you wanna go to?”

Scott contemplates it, having the keen understanding that there isn’t a no party option. He thinks about being with Stiles, but having to stare at a screen and somehow concentrate on a plot and characters he doesn’t care about. Thinks about seeing Stiles stripped down to boxers and one of his oldest, thinnest Ts, but surrounded by strangers. Thinks about them moving together in dim lighting, the pulse of music thrumming through them.

“Dance party.”

“I’m gonna shower and then we can grab dinner,” Stiles says. He takes his tablet out of his backpack before getting his clothes ready. “Feel free to start watching _A New Hope_ in my absence.”

“Is that the latest one? On Netflix?”

“I _despair_ of you.” 

Scott forgoes watching _Star Wars_ in order to change into the neat blue button-down he brought and store Yoda safely away. He takes a series of ridiculous selfies on Stiles’ tablet and cellphone and changes his lockscreens, wallpapers and his contact pictures to the least flattering pictures ever taken. 

When Stiles comes back he’s wearing an even tighter shirt and pants, which Scott thinks he’s enjoying a little too much, but he’s smothered himself in cologne, which offends all of Scott’s senses. 

“What are you wearing?”

Stiles peers down at himself. “Justin said this looks okay?”

“Oh no, you look amazing. You smell like someone puked up a Hershey bar and a vanilla pod into a vat of cleaning chemicals.”

Stiles opens his mouth, gasps in indignation. “That’s the meanest thing you’ve ever said to me. That’s the meanest thing you’ve ever said to anyone, and we’ve faced people trying to murder us.” He sniffs his shoulder. “It smells good to me? And it’s Ralph Lauren. It wasn’t cheap.”

Scott raises his eyebrows. He’s tempted to physically shove Stiles back into the shower, but that just gets him thinking about Stiles’ soaped-up skin slipping under his fingers and… 

He’s always been attracted to Stiles in some way. He’s always found him physically appealing. It’s never been this overwhelming or difficult to control before. Never been a thirst he can’t quench or hunger he can’t sate. He wants to reach for Stiles and fit him within all his spaces, wants to strip him down until he’s pure and untouched by anything except Scott. 

He’s _jealous_ of Stiles’ cologne, hates that it’s masking the scents he’s so used to, but also the prospect of his and Stiles’ scents mingling together. It’s so dumb, this level of possessiveness, and Scott tries not to feel shame over the smallest of indiscretions, but he’s ashamed of this. Because he doesn’t think it’s a werewolf thing. It’s helped by his abilities, his extra-sensory skills, but the drive, the motivation, they feel all too human. 

“You promised me food,” Scott says, in lieu of saying all the things he’s thinking. He sounds choked up and hopes it sounds fake, that it seems like he’s continuing to be a jerk about Stiles’ cologne. 

“I’ll take you, but you’re paying,” Stiles says, purposely nudging into Scott’s side as he heads back out the door. 

Scott ignores all common sense and as soon as they’re in the hallway, wraps his arm around his shoulders, holds him against his side. 

*

The party’s in full swing by the time they get there because they couldn’t decide what to eat and then the lines were stupidly long. Also, Scott might have been delaying because he wanted to chat with Stiles and Stiles didn’t seem to mind, spinning off on tangents in his retelling of stories he’s already told Scott, and asking for his opinion on _Spider-Man: Homecoming_ , whether there would ever be another stand-alone Hulk movie, and what the hell was going on with the MCU’s timeline. 

Stiles introduces Scott to his DC friends above the roar of music. Scott’s spoken a few times to Justin, who reminds him of Mason because he’s preternaturally calm and excited simultaneously, and Danika who is more like a friendlier Lydia. Scott wonders if Stiles has a friend who’s analogous to him, a replacement best friend who fulfills the role he can’t given there’s usually almost 3000 miles between them. It has his stomach twisting again, full as it is, and he thinks about withdrawing, standing on the side of the room as Stiles spends time in his new element – this place where he belongs and Scott doesn’t. 

But Stiles wraps his hand around his wrist and leads him into the throng of dancing bodies, carves them out an area so they can move to the music. They don’t touch, but they’re close, they’re obviously dancing together, and by the time the track changes, Scott’s gotten into the rhythm and is matching some of Stiles’ movements. 

“I don’t think I’ve ever actually seen you dance,” Stiles yells some time later. He’s had a few drinks so he’s loose and his eyes are hazy. His smiles are open and he’s sweated enough that more of his natural scent is filling Scott’s nostrils. “Not like this.”

“I don’t think I ever have,” Scott returns. 

He’s inched closer to Stiles, ostensibly to get out of the way of other partiers and to hear him speaking. But also so he can feel Stiles’ body heat, so he can bask in his attention up close.

“You should do it more often,” Stiles says, rocking his hips, sinuous and suggestive. “It suits you.”

Scott thinks about sliding his hand up under the damp back of Stiles’ shirt, nosing against his jaw. He thinks about closing the space between them, fitting his hips against Stiles’. Kissing over the deep pink hollows of his cheeks to his equally pink lips. He wonders what they look like, dancing so close but not making contact, whether Stiles’ other friends are envious or baffled or uncaring.

They dance until the early hours, though they’re not the last people on the floor. Danika joined them at one stage, and Justin as well. Scott saw Brad in his periphery, and met Stiles’ other friends JJ and Keegan. He had a good time, despite his initial reservations, despite worrying he’s a spare part, and he can tell Stiles did as well. They stumble back to his room before it can properly be termed morning, Stiles mostly sober but still clinging onto him anyway. 

Scott flops onto Brad’s bed when they enter the room, yawning widely. Stiles gives him a couple of long, slow blinks before he strips off his shirt and wriggles under the covers of his own bed, his pants sailing through the air to hit the wardrobe door a moment later. 

“I’m really glad you came,” Stiles mumbles, face already half-smushed into his pillow. 

“Me too,” Scott replies, trying not to think about Stiles a couple of feet away wearing boxer briefs and nothing else. Trying not to imagine if he’d acted like he shouldn’t touch Brad’s property and chosen to lie in Stiles’ twin, having to curve around him so they’d both fit. “It was weird realizing I can function okay without you beside me. But… still feel wrong, somehow.”

“I know what you mean. Seeing that other people can like me, can want to be with me, was bizarre. For the longest time it was just you. But even though I have other friends, sometimes I still only want you.”

Stiles yawns again and when Scott glances over, his eyes are shut and his chest is rising and falling in a steady rhythm. It takes a while for Scott to gain his own peace, mind and body both keyed up from being in such close quarters with Stiles once more.

*

Scott awakens to a high pitched “What the fuck?” and laughter, rubs his head and his chin before opening his eyes to find Stiles pointing his phone at him and snapping a picture. 

“When did you get hold of my phone and how did I not notice until now?”

“You never checked it last night,” Scott says, climbing out of bed. 

Once Stiles was asleep he’d taken off his shirt, and Stiles gives him a once over without even seeming to realize it, gaze wavering between Scott’s chest and his face. 

Stiles has smothered himself in Axe today and even though it’s a different scent, Scott continues to hate it. 

“Okay if I go shower?” he asks, because he needs a distraction from the way Stiles’ lips thin out as he sucks them inwards and ducks his head forward like a turtle snapping at a leaf. It’s one of Stiles’ classic looks of resignation and it’s impossibly cute. Scott’s missed his expressiveness, the range of emotions he can see painted on his face even when Stiles is choosing to keep the words to explain them close to his chest. 

“Yeah, get your things, I’ll show you where.”

A communal bathroom means Scott can’t relieve the tension he’s been feeling – or, he technically could, but he _won’t_. He washes himself efficiently, dries off and dresses, and pointedly does not reimagine dancing with Stiles last night with them grinding together half-naked. He also does not wonder when Stiles has a chance to jack off, because that would lead to what he believes is probably accurate visualization and would get him half-hard again. 

“I wanna show you my favorite places. You down for that?” Stiles asks, looking heart-clenchingly familiar in blue flannel, corduroy pants and well-worn Adidas sneakers.

“Are any of them The White House?”

“No.”

“Then I am definitely down for that.”

Traveling around with Stiles, it’s obvious that Washington DC has become his home away from home, despite the relatively short space of time. He’s confident and connected, has several acquaintances and regular haunts. Scott’s been spending so many of his weekends back at Beacon Hills helping coach the Lacrosse team that Davis hasn’t had to fill a void. He hasn’t been forced to remake himself, so he hasn’t bothered.

Stiles asks him about that as they move through the Smithsonian, careful in a way he never used to be. 

“How’s my favorite growly boy doing in school? I know I’ve asked before but I never get straight answers.”

“Last I heard he’d gotten an A in calculus.”

“You’re not even – oh wait, you’re talking about Liam. Scotty, you know he’s not my favorite.”

“And yet, you don’t know that _I’m_ not growly.”

Stiles bats at him, connecting once or twice. “Sometimes you are. Like when you’re going cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs, or crazy for Cap’n Crunch, or you’re champing at the bit for Cheerios.”

Scott’s smiling back at him, now, because he can’t help it. “So, basically, any time breakfast foods are involved,” Scott says, every syllable laden with scepticism. 

“I have seen you many mornings, remember. I saw you _this_ morning. I know whereof I speak.”

“I’m doing okay,” Scott says with a half-shrug. “Academically I’m great. I’ve gotten good grades in papers so far. I just… I don’t really feel like I’ve moved on like you have.”

Stiles peers at him intently, moves until he’s facing Scott bodily, holds onto his wrists. He shifts and lets go after a moment, like he’s second-guessing himself, taken-aback by his own actions. 

“If you think I’ve cut ties and stepped away because I wanted to, you’ve gotten it all wrong. I thought I was doing the right thing, Scotty. By you, by everyone in Beacon Hills.”

“I’m not – I don’t feel betrayed or abandoned, Stiles. I’m happy for you. You deserve this. You deserve not to live under the specter of the bullshit we’ve been through.”

Stiles’ entire face goes still and he shakes his head. “I hurt you,” he says, and Scott has only ever heard him sound this desperate once before, when they were surrounded by gasoline and he was holding a flare, trying to remember why he shouldn’t burn. “I let anger and anxiousness and guilt tear me apart until I was incapable of looking at you and not seeing my own conscience staring back at me. It wasn’t fair and it wasn’t right. _I_ wasn’t right. I didn’t leave to escape. I left to protect you.”

It’s not the right venue to be having this discussion, boxed in on all sides by museum pieces and interstate visitors. It’s too intimate and too exposed.

“I don’t need protecting,” Scott replies, because no other words will come. He wishes Stiles had told him this earlier. Perhaps he could have convinced him to stay. He’d thought he was the one doing Stiles the favor. 

“You do, though,” Stiles counters, finally touching Scott, squeezing his shoulder in a touch that’s probably supposed to feel fraternal, but in this moment feels more like possession. Scott pats at his hand, wants to entwine their fingers when they start to walk again, paying attention to the exhibition mostly because he doesn’t know how to look at Stiles without telling him how he’s been feeling. 

He didn’t understand how much he longed for Stiles’ touch until he didn’t have it anymore. How vital a casual tap against his arm, or temporary hold could seem. Now that he has it again, he wants it every second; Stiles’ heat flickering next to his. 

The rest of the day is strained. Not unhappy, but tense regardless. There’s too much unspoken between them and it chafes at Scott. He wonders what’s going on in Stiles’ mind, whether he thinks Scott’s been harboring anger and resentment, when that’s not it, when that’s never been it. He really is happy Stiles has this other place where he fits, where he’s successful and happy. It never occurred to him that Stiles chose this out of a misguided sense of altruism, and in the end, that doesn’t matter. Stiles is _better_ here. He has a new life, here. He only wants to know that he belongs in Stiles’ new life too. 

He thinks he does. Or at least, Stiles has said he still wants him to. That has to be enough. 

“Are you trapped?” Stiles asks him later, over burgers. He’s drawn and serious, a shadow in his eyes that wasn’t there before. “I always thought you’d be able to be your own person at Davis, that you were spending weekends at Beacon Hills because you chose to. But is it obligation? You could stay here, if you wanted. I bet I could blackmail your dad into scoring you a transfer.”

“No, it’s not like that. Not totally. Sometimes I feel like I’m not progressing like I wanted, sure, but it’s not so much a trap as a self-made comfort zone.” Scott plays with his fries, trying to get an optimal ketchup coating, avoids looking up. 

“I always thought that’d be me,” Stiles says, fingers tapping against the tabletop. He huffs out a sigh. “Was I wrong, to leave you?”

The immediate thought that comes to Scott’s mind is _Yes._ But he knows it’s not true. That there isn’t a simple yes or no answer. He finally glances up, meets Stiles’ gaze.

“Does it feel like it was wrong?”

“Occasionally.”

“Then it was a little bit wrong. But not completely.”

Stiles’ face goes through a series of complicated expressions and then he’s giving Scott that fond, warm half-smile Scott knows and loves. The one that sends Scott’s heart into a persistently loud drum that seems to rattle his bones. 

They share dessert, return to light-hearted jokes and reminiscing. Scott can sense a change between them. Doesn’t know how to articulate it. It lives in their silhouettes, in the crackle of air surrounding them. It isn’t fully-formed, but that doesn’t stop it from being powerful and consuming. 

In Stiles’ dorm room, Brad’s left them a note on the desk saying he’ll be back in the morning. There’s a winky face and two stick figures drawn in a compromising position. Stiles blushes pink as he scrunches it up, tosses it in the trash. 

It’s as natural as breathing for Scott to read Stiles, to analyze his chemosignals, and listen to his heart. It’s never felt like an invasion of privacy. But as Stiles sprays on more Axe, complaining he must be rank, it becomes clear that his views on the matter and Stiles’ don’t align. He’s been masking his scent _deliberately_.

Scott’s heart drops deep into his gut and he swallows down the lump in his throat. He sits on Brad’s bed, starkly aware again of the chasm between him and Stiles. This feeling is worse than any twist of a knife. Seconds tick by, cruel and silent.

“I’m sorry,” Stiles says. Scott thinks he may have said it once before, but it was a long time ago, so it surprises him into staring. “I know it must be uncomfortable, getting assailed by my hormones every five minutes. I’ve been trying to keep a lid on it, but you’re _you_ and you’re here, so you’ve been getting the Sexually Suggestive Stilinski Stinkfest.” 

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Scott counters softly, tongue dry and temples throbbing because Stiles has been driving him crazy for over 24 hours now and he doesn’t have a clue how to deal with it. “You think I’d prefer anything other than your scent? You’ve remembered that I’m a werewolf, right? That you’re in my pack? You do know that scent is a big thing for wolves. It’s been taking all my self-will not to _mark_ you.”

“Yeah, I’ve remembered you’re a werewolf and I also know that _you know_ what my chemosignals signify, so I don’t want you getting the impression I’m a hair’s breadth away from popping a boner every time we’re in the same room.”

“Would it be the wrong impression?”

Stiles flails, like he has too much energy that needs releasing. “Occasionally!”

Scott’s throat constricts and he’s caught between laughing and sobbing. He stands and walks over to Stiles, drops down in front of him. Stiles is frowning, eyes bright and red-rimmed. He refuses to meet Scott’s gaze. There’s a bitter note of humiliation in his scent, strong enough to overcome his body spray. 

“You think it’s one-sided,” Scott says, realizing in that moment that this has never entirely been a case of both of them choosing not to pursue this type of relationship, like he’d always assumed. “Stiles,” he murmurs, needing to touch him, wanting to pull him close. He settles his hands on Stiles’ knees, strokes his thumbs against the rough material of his inner thighs. “Really, you never noticed?”

Stiles squints, licks his lower lip. Scott tracks it, raises an eyebrow as he glances back up into Stiles’ eyes. 

“I thought you knew,” Scott says. “I thought we didn’t act on it because we’re young and this feels like a forever kind of deal. Because we’ve never needed this kind of physical connection before.”

“Kinda sounds like you think we need it now,” Stiles says, voice oddly flat. 

“I don’t need it,” Scott retorts. He takes a deep breath, decides to be brave. “I really want it, though.” 

Stiles leans in, softly taps Scott’s cheek. He twists his lips at Scott, looks sad. “You think maybe you’ve been feeling this way because you’re lonely?”

Scott gets up, settles next to Stiles on the bed, presses along his side now that his hands aren’t on him. Stiles’ question was his answer and he’s going to have to accept it, no matter how hollow it makes him feel. It’s the sense of almost that has him wishing he’d never said a word. At least in ignorance he could pretend they’d have a someday. But it appears it’s not something Stiles has ever truly wanted. He’s been making myths up inside his head, as legendary as he’s supposed to be.

“Maybe this feeling is heightened because I’m lonely, yeah,” he admits. It isn’t absolutely true, though, so he continues. “But I’m lonely because I feel this way. It’s a cycle.”

Stiles’ voice is raspy when he speaks. He turns to stare at Scott. “Oh my god, how do you always know what to say to get me thinking terrible ideas make sense?”

Scott’s about to answer, but Stiles moves again, swivels until he’s practically in Scott’s lap. He has one hand on the back of his head, one at his jaw, and he’s closing his eyes and nudging in for a kiss before Scott can utter a word. 

The words would have been, “Yes, please,” so Scott does not mind. 

Stiles kisses him with a kind of urgency that licks like fire up Scott’s spine. But it isn’t a fire of destruction. It’s rejuvenation. He brackets Scott with a tight grip and part of Scott wants to tell him to slow down, to draw this out, but the biggest part is caught up in matching the fever-hot sear of his kisses. Scott can’t help but rub against Stiles, pulling away from the kiss to lick at his neck, peck at his collarbones, to cover him in his scent until he can’t tell where he stops and Stiles begins. 

He presses Stiles into the sheets and settles against him, sliding his hand up under his shirt like he’s been imagining since he arrived in DC. Stiles does the same thing, rubs his thumb into the dip of Scott’s back, groaning when it makes Scott grind harder into him. 

“If this is a terrible idea, I wanna know the great ones,” Scott says after Stiles sucks a love bite at the juncture of his neck and shoulder, his cock twitching in his pants. 

He might be able to come like this, though he doesn’t want to yet, wants to wait until they have more time to learn and explore. At the moment he only knows one way they fit together, and it’s good, it feels better than anything else has within the past year, but it only has him craving more.

“Oh, I have _so many_ ideas about what I wanna do with you, Scotty,” Stiles replies. “Embarrassingly specific ideas.”

Scott rolls them until they’re on their sides, tangles their legs together. “Tell me one.”

Stiles’ eyes are devilish and calculating as he presses a kiss against Scott’s wrist. “I have this one visual picture that keeps me warm at night of my legs around your waist and you holding me up as you edge into me, inch by inch.”

Scott imagines it, has to take a slow and steady breath. “I like the sound of that,” he says, affecting calm tones that sound precisely as fake as they feel. “I’ve thought about you pinning my wrists as you fuck me full and whisper how we belong together.”

“ _Sweetheart,_ ” Stiles gasps, swollen lips parted so perfectly Scott needs to claim them again.

Their kisses turn gentle and syrupy-slow eventually, tired from the long night and day they’re coming down from, relishing this small world they’ve built for themselves. Scott’s warm, comfortable, and for the first time in a long time, content. He isn’t going to think about tomorrow’s late-night flight away from Stiles, refuses to let this moment be dimmed when it’s so bright. He fits Stiles within all his spaces, strips him down until he’s pure and untouched by anything except Scott. 

“We do belong together,” Stiles murmurs when they drift apart. “I like it here, I’ve made myself into a new person in the ways I needed to and it’s been good. I had to do it so I could come back to you. But you need to understand that I was always coming back to you, Scott. I’m yours. If this is a forever kinda deal, I’m okay with that.”

Scott kisses him once more, curves around Stiles until there isn’t an inch between them. “I love you too.”


End file.
